


i must go on standing

by dontyoudarestiles



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 2018 Winter Olympics, Happy Credence Barebone, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Mary Lou Barebone is Her Own Warning, Mentions of Real Life Figure Skaters, Social Media, There Is Drama, but Credence Has Problems, figure skating, implied/referenced eating disorder, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-24 00:32:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13799607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontyoudarestiles/pseuds/dontyoudarestiles
Summary: Credence Barebone competes in the 2018 PyeongChang Olympics as a men's figure skater. He doesn't expect his idol, former Olympic champion Percival Graves, to take such an interest in him.(He doesn't mind it at all).





	i must go on standing

**Author's Note:**

> songs to accompany Credence's performances:  
> Free program: Bird - Billie Marten  
> Short program: Apres Mois - Regina Spekter

Gangneung is just as cold outside as it is in the rink, if not colder, to Credence’s dismay. His breath blooms in short puffing clouds, and he presses his mittened hands to his ruddy cheeks, trying to preserve some little spark of warmth. It’s hard, especially when he’s left his hat indoors and the shells of his ears are blasted by the wintry winds.

“Only fucking ice skater I know who doesn’t like the cold,” Seraphina grumbles, but she pinches his cheek like an aunt would, and he knows her words are soft with fondness.

“I forgot my jacket,” Credence mumbles, and the fire alarm is still blaring, a steady shrill beep that Credence counts under his breath, fingers flexing uncomfortably.

“I cannot believe this,” Seraphina says, and Credence knows the only reason she’s not going ballistic is because she knows loud yelling and harsh words would just upset him. It makes him anxious, chewing at his bottom lip, and anxiety isn’t conducive to winning a medal, like Seraphina always says. “It’s the 2018 Olympics and we’re standing outside the rink two days before competition because a faulty fire alarm decided to go off.”

“Could be worse,” says Credence quietly. He can hear loud screaming in Russian further up and it makes his shoulders tense. “Could’ve happened during my program.”

Seraphina inhales noisily through her nose. “Don’t even put that into the universe, Credence.”

Credence opens his mouth to say more, but he’s silenced by the sudden, shocking layer of warmth draped over his trembling shoulders.

“Neglecting your athletes again, Sera?” asks a deep, low voice that sends shivers down Credence’s spine that are very much not from the cold. The jacket the person has put on Credence is much too large, sleeves dangling past his wrists, but it is so warm that Credence wants to burrow inside and never come out.

“As always, Graves,” says Seraphina, “Nobody asked for your opinion.”

 _Percival Graves._ Wry mouth and heavy brows and a jawline that Credence would recognize anyware, and Credence feels his world fall apart and reassemble within the space of two seconds.

“So harsh, Picquery,” says Graves with some amusement as Credence tries to regain his footing on Earth. “You’d almost think you didn’t want me here.” And he turns those liquid eyes onto Credence, hand outstretched. “Percival Graves. It’s an honor.” And after a moment when Credence takes too long to respond, that warm smile, so bright and sweet in the biting cold, slips a little. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep—”

“No, no,” says Credence, and he is unapologetically breathless, eager, eyes blown wide with shock. “It’s just—I. I—I had pictures of you up on my walls…”

He wishes in the wake of that sentence that Seraphina would choke him so he doesn’t have to do it to himself.

But Graves just looks a little sheepish after that admission, almost _modest._ “God, that’s sweet of you,” he says, rubbing at his neck, exposed and burning red with every sharp blow of wind. “I only placed in one Olympics, after all.”

As though that lessened the achievement, having only a 1998 Nagano silver medal under his belt, as if he hadn’t won three Grand Prixs, soared onto the podium at three Trophée de Frances, as if he wasn’t the devilish darling of the European circuit before turning 21. As if his late injury on the eve of the 2002 Salt Lake Olympic games hadn’t been the death of a legend, as though Credence’s heart hadn’t cracked into a million pieces at the ruin of his career, a candle blown out too soon.

“You’re legendary,” says Credence, and Percival Graves fucking _blushes._

“He’s dangerous,” Percival says to Seraphina, who just looks smug for reasons Credence doesn’t know why.

“All the best winners are,” Seraphina replies, and this time it’s Credence’s turn to blush, because even though he knows he has a chance at making the podium—Seraphina wouldn’t let him look at the calculated odds on any gambling sites or listen to any commentators anymore, but it’s hard not to hear when everyone’s saying it—it’s still startling to have such intense confidence in him coming from his coach.

“Stop it,” Credence says quietly, tips of his ears burning. “You’ll jinx me.”

“Never,” says Percival, and Credence turns and looks at him. “I saw you at this season’s Gran Prix. You were good, Credence. You should’ve gotten gold. Would’ve, too, if it hadn’t been for—”

“My quad loop,” Credence says, but Percival is shaking his head.

“Still, you landed it, even if it was a little under rotated.” Percival leans in and murmurs, “You would’ve won if you hadn’t been thinking so much.”

Credence can feel the hot puff of air against his cheek and he drops his head and tries not to squeal.

“I’ll thank you not to fluster my champion,” says Seraphina wryly, and that makes Percival straighten as if realizing himself and back up a step or two, leaving Credence a bereft island in the middle of an icy ocean. “What are you even doing here, Percival?”

“NBC asked me to commentate on the men's’ program,” says Percival with a laugh, and Credence’s mouth nearly opens in surprise. “My thoughts exactly,” says Percival at Credence’s expression. “But apparently they want a fresher perspective. Don’t know why they’re coming to an old man like me for it, not when they already—”

“God, you’re just as bad as Credence,” says Seraphina. “Why not just take the compliment, Graves? It’s not as though you’re some washed up skater drunk off his ass and out of the public eye. You own a rink. You still train. You’re a _fresh perspective.”_

Percival laughs richly, and Credence wishes he could listen to that sound forever, because it makes the tension heavy in his back just fall away, a warm glow lit inside him, keeping away the cold. “I think that’s the first kind thing to me you’ve said all day,” he says and Seraphina hisses, and this time Credence laughs.

It’s only after Percival says his goodbyes and winks at Credence, the rink now open, the alarm now quiet that Credence realizes he forgot to give the man his coat back.

…

He has a nightmare the night before the short.

“I was drowning in warm water, but I could see for some reason. I think Ma was watching me,” Credence tells Seraphina over breakfast, and she looks at him without pity. Which is why he loves her so much. She never pities him, no matter how often he comes to her in tears or so frustrated he could scream or paralyzed with some deep, trembling fear that even Credence doesn’t know how to talk about.

“You just tell her to fuck off,” she says and rakes her hands through his messy curls, ignoring his whines. “Shush, we still have to get to the practice rink, and then we have press. It’s gonna be a long day, bud. Eat your breakfast.”

Credence grumbles, but shovels eggs into his mouth, and that’s something he don’t think he’ll ever get over, the easy access to food that Ma had never allowed him. She had been more obsessed with Credence’s intake more than Credence ever knew, counting out his calories as though even a single extra would steal a medal from him, as if Credence couldn’t count every sharp rung of his bird cage ribs in the mirror, as though there wasn’t an endless void gaping within his stomach, scratching, crawling hunger something that never left him, even when he slept. Sometimes he had to skate on an empty stomach, usually running on a few peanuts or half a Kellogg bar or something equally skimpy. It left him more exhausted than not, and his skating suffered for it, though he was blamed for that too.

“Hey.”

Credence looks up and blinks presently, wincing a little when Seraphina raises a brow.

“I told you. Tell her to fuck off and get your mind here, right now.” Seraphina squeezes his shoulder as she stands, and it makes Credence warm and soft, the way his Ma never did. “You never needed her.”

“I know,” says Credence, and he means it. He never needed her. He heads to practice with his belly full and his heart thudding in his chest.

And it would’ve been perfect if it hadn’t been for Percival Graves.

The man stands at the top of the bleachers during practice. Credence sees him as he’s practicing his triple axels, catches a glimpse of broad shoulders— _cloaked in a different coat, Credence is glad, wouldn’t want him to freeze in such awful weather—_ and it only takes that much of a distraction to send him crashing onto the ice.

“Credence!” Seraphina calls from the sidelines, eyes wild.

His cheeks burn with humiliation and he grits his teeth and presses his forehead against the ice for a second. Of all the times to see his idol again, of course it’s like this. When Credence crashes and fails.

The entire rink holds its breath. Credence can see a stringy little man in a medic’s jacket pop up in his peripheral from who knows where. The ever present cameras hover, probably hoping to catch the death of a career on camera, a juicy story to lament over in the late night news. _Tragic Spill, America’s Hope Dead._

Javier Fernandez of Spain is the first to move. He skids up next to Credence, offering his hand with a bright smile, though his eyes are deeply worried. “You alright?” He asks, voice kind.

Credence takes it and grunts as he’s hauled onto his feet, looking up sheepishly, a bit shy. “Thanks.” He wriggles his toes in his skates, turns an ankle carefully to check. His hip throbs a little from the hard impact of the ice, but he’d rolled the way Seraphina's had taught him how to fall, and there’s no ache of torn muscle, or searing shriek of broken bone. Olympic ice isn't any different from any other ice; his only trophy will be a few colorful bruises at the end of the day. “Yeah, I’m good.”

The click of Seraphina’s snapping fingers drag his attention to her at the edge of the rink. “Hey! Credence!” She makes an ominous come-hither gesture with her index finger.

Credence makes a face at a laughing Javier before gliding over, pouting a little when his ear’s tugged affectionately, nothing like the hard stinging slaps Ma would’ve rained down on him. He takes Seraphina’s scolding with good humor, but when he’s finally able to look up and search, Percival Graves has disappeared, leaving only Credence embarrassed and bruised in his wake.

...

Credence doesn’t remember the opening ceremonies at all, anymore than a blur of screaming and a whip of bright flame, Adam, one of his competitors, and Karen from women’s singles sliding their hands into his and squeezing hard as they walk under a fluttering American flag, shrieks ringing in Credence’s ears.

...

_AMERICA’S MIRACLE BOY: DREAMS COME TRUE FOR FIGURE SKATER CREDENCE BAREBONE AT 2018 OLYMPICS_   
_by Regina Skeeter_

The practice rink in the basement of the Gangneung Ice Arena is a mess of activity that is hard to follow. Only two days until the men’s singles programs begin, the acclaimed Japanese Yuzuru Hanyu practices his quad lutz while the subtle Javier Fernandez of Spain and boisterous Jin Boyang of China compare sit spins. But even while competing face to face with the top competitors of the skating world, 21 year old American skater Credence Barebone is shy.

“It’s just, they’re legends,” Barebone says. He scuffs his skates on the ice, a bad habit picked up in high school that he claims he’s never grown out of. “I’m just a kid compared to them, you know?” He visibly makes a face when his any of his impressive achievements are brought up. “Well, anyone sounds great when you say it like that.” It’s just the type of usually put upon modesty most fans would eat up with a spoon, but Barebone’s exasperated coach and skating legend Seraphina Picquery insists it’s not false.

“It took ages for him to get where he is mostly because he’s never had a real support system. And even when he didn’t, he was still kicking ass,” says Picquery. “He just kicks ass harder nowadays.”

It’s amusing to see a coach scolded for her language, but Barebone is full of surprises.

It seems he has a habit of defying expectations. The center of the rags to riches sports story of the century, Credence Barebone has risen up from injury and starvation and abuse in a show of defiance no one had expected from the 21 year old. Interviews have often described Barebone as sharing the qualities he projects on the ice and the impressions one would get from his tragic backstory – a vulnerability, a fragility, as though some water sprite had somehow carved out a successful skating career.

Despite what his fansites insist, Barebone is no fluttery Bambi creature, at least not in competition. He is shy, which he readily admits, and has a tendency to grow quiet and look away during conversations that last too long. But he is also fierce, and flies into quadruples with speeds almost entirely unheard of but for the top podium members, easily keeping up with the Nathan Chens and Yuzuru Hanyus of the skating world.

“I’m not damaged,” Barebone insists. “Not any more than any other person here, anyways.”

His senior debut only five years ago would’ve made you think otherwise.

It was the 2013 Trophée de France and Credence Barebone had finished his short skate. It was an atrocious performance. He’d flubbed all his jumps, popped his only quadruple in the whole program. A mere sixteen years old and visibly devastated, America’s heart broke with him. But no one was as visibly enraged as his coach, the legendary Mary Lou Barebone. In the now thoroughly examined video footage of the Kiss and Cry, she sat with her skater with all the poise and stoicness of a ice sculpture. After the scores came out, Credence was placed at third to last, not a shot at making podium. Mary Lou had physically dragged him up out of his seat, but Barebone only managed to take two steps before he’d crumpled, dead faint.

In the private physical examination that followed, certain ugly truths had been revealed. Reports came out that Barebone suffered from severe malnourishment, lacerations from what looked like a belt and a cane criss-crossed across his back, and several undocumented fractures in his wrists and fingers that had not been completely healed.

A day after competition, Credence Barebone had woken hooked up to an IV and his mother in custody.

“In any other case, I would’ve been done in the skating world,” Barebone admits easily now, sipping from a thermos of hot herbal tea his coach foists on him. “Finished. You know? My—that woman owned a skating club. Skating’s expensive. Under Mary Lou, I didn’t need sponsors for travel fees or maintaining equipment or paying choreographers or any of that... And with that godawful debut my only real performance? Forget it. I thought I was going to be placed in a home and forgotten.”

And that’s where Coach Seraphina Picquery came in.

“I never really thought of her as a coach at first,” Credence says. “More of a shepherd, helping me find my way.”

“Miss me with that Biblical shit,” says Picquery. “I’m his coach and I was his guardian for the better part of two years. We’ve been through some hard times together, but we made it together. I look after him and he looks after me.”

What exactly made you want to become his guardian?

“I was in the foster system when I was a kid,” Picquery reveals. “It was the worst time of my life. And then I hear about this skater who needed a place to stay, otherwise he was going to end up he was going to end up a ward of the state. I couldn’t let that happen on my watch, not with everything he was going through. He needed support and I was there to give it. I didn’t originally plan on training him, but he wanted to compete so bad. It took a while. He was only a 110 pounds soaking wet, and with his height? He needed to gain weight and train himself to adjust to actually being healthy.”

Credence readily admits he’s struggled with eating and keeping a regular sleep schedule in the aftermath of Mary Lou Barebone’s trial. “Recovery’s a process. It can last years. But I’m doing better now than I ever have in my life. I’m not just a victim anymore. I’m an _Olympian_.”

And speaking of the Olympics, how do you think your chances are in competition?

“I’m confident I'll win for sure if I skate a clean program," he says.

The boldness of the statement is softened by the sweet inflection of his voice and the wide beam of his smile, untouched by arrogance. It is this expressiveness and determination that have led to such wild popularity among skater circles. His ever growing fan base rivals that of those of Japanese and Korean skaters, a marked change from the previously indifferent attitude Americans have towards ice skaters in the past decades. While in Japan skaters are the equivalent of international rockstars, Barebone is more of an indie sensation among the American and French and Korean fans he’s accumulated over the years. What is it that draws so much attention to such a shy young man?

“It’s the cheekbones,” says Picquery.

Barebone has a different take. “I think it’s my story.” He smiles. “Lots of people can relate to being mistreated and underestimated and ignored. I don’t want to sound egotistical, but I think I’m… I think I’m proof that things can get better. This is everything I’ve ever dreamed of, being at the Olympics. And I never thought it would happen. And look at where I am now.”

And now that you’re at the Olympics, do you have a new dream?

“To win,” says Credence. “I want to stand on the podium and make myself proud.”

An entire country will stand with him.

…

His short program is the worst he’s ever skated this season.

It’s supposed to be angry. It’s supposed to be the biggest fuck you to anyone who’s ever called him a charity case or a freak or put bruises on his body. It’s vicious and hard and angry, teeth bared, energy frenetic. And all Credence can think about is how cold it is in the rink, colder than he’s ever been. It’s a miracle his knees don’t lock up.

It goes smooth at first. He lands his quad salchow, but he feels the chip of the ice when he kicks off for the quad toe, and suddenly his hip is banging hard against the pavement, and he has to clamber up from the absolute bottom of humiliation to even try and salvage a bit of his performance.

It feels impossible. It feels like he has lead weights locked to his ankles and he’s flooded in water, lungs burning, thighs tight, his muscles and bones turning to pillars of salt, and he can only pray that it’ll be over soon.

It’s only two minutes. Two excruciating minutes, two years, two eternities, and he can’t hear anything, refuses to, blood rushing so hard that his heartbeat is thudding heavy in his ears, pulsing behind his right eye, heating his blood. There’s supposed to be a swell of sound in his music towards the end as he slides into his ridiculously fast sit spin, and the world blurs around him, and he can’t hear a thing but Percival Graves murmuring, _“You could’ve won if you hadn’t been thinking so much.”_

…

 **biggest fan** _@goYuzuBabe_ _  
_ Percival Graves commentating for NBC just makes me so happy someone protect this man

 **Ricki Trite** _@javifernandezwife34_ _  
_ Ikr he deserves this. He’s having such a good time

 **Honey Jones** _@redlightsgold_ _  
_ Percival Graves roasting Johnny Weir’s entire existence gives me life

 **Mei Kim** _@JinBoyangCanDoIt_ _  
__@redlightsgold_ ok but is no one going to talk about how much hotter he is now than he ever was talk about #fine wine

 **Tim Trey** _@reckoning23_ _  
_ I know nothing about figureskating but the commentators keep talking about this Barebone kid I hope he does ok #pyeongchang

 **biggest fan** _@goYuzuBabe_ _  
_ _@reckoning23_ Barebone has an actual shot at the gold this year, it’s his first Olympics and he’s so ready. But we’ll have to see how he does under pressure. Fingers crossed that everything goes alright

 **Barebone’s Babe** _@trymehoney_ _  
_ Credence is the sweetest lil peach under the sun and no matter what happens he’s still overcome so much he’s the real winner here

 **actual trash <3 ** _@punmaster2000_ _  
_ I don’t even go here but that outfit is killer

 **Barebone’s Babe** _@trymehoney_ _  
_ Oh no og no pls no

 **Mei Kim** _@JinBoyangCanDoIt_ _  
_ He fell on the quad we know he can do in his sleep what is happening

 **Ricki Trite** _@javifernandezwife34_ _  
_ it’s ok it’s ok he got up he’s not hurt oh sweet bb jesus

 **Honey Jones** _@redlightsgold_ _  
_ I AM SO STRESSED RN

 **Mei Kim** _@JinBoyangCanDoIt_  
only a 90.27…

 **Tim Trey** _@reckoning23_ _  
__@JinBoyangCanDoIt_ is that that bad???

 **Mei Kim** _@JinBoyangCanDoIt_ _  
__@reckoning23_ It’s not “terrible” but he’s been consistently getting 101 to 103 this season and he needed that high score in order to compete against skaters who get ridiculously high scores like Hanyu and Fernandez

 **Barebone’s Babe** _@trymehoney_ _  
_ Petition we all fly out to Pyeongchang rn and give credence barebone a big hug

 **Ricki Trite** _@javifernandezwife34_ _  
_ fuck

…

While his short might’ve been a nightmare, his free skate costume is something out of a dream. Swirls of blues and greens, a soft dust of glitter over the whole confection. His Ma would’ve never let him wear something so feminine and tight. She’d put him in plain gray dress shirts and ill fitting trousers for every performance. But Seraphina had taken one look at him and said, “You need something with color.”

And now Credence has all the color. It’s a dream. And a nightmare to put on. The top is actually a long-sleeved leotard, clinging tight to every dip and curve of his sides and spine, snug against his belly, and tugging it on feels as though he’s putting on a second skin, but an invulnerable one, one that could deflect bullets and warp knives.

But even if it’s gorgeous, even with his flexibility that all the news commentators can’t stop talking about, he can’t manage to tug up the zipper low on the back. He huffs in frustration, arms dropping to his sides, but before he can move on to slide on the black leggings that come with the leotard, there’s a laugh.

“Looks like you need some help there, Credence.”

Credence looks up, the walled mirror reflecting a grinning Percival Graves, effortlessly handsome in a well tapered black suit, and Credence flushes so darkly, he feels himself sway. It doesn’t appear on his cheeks, the soft powder that he’d applied this morning saving him, but somehow he thinks Percival can tell either way.

“Ah!” He waves his hands in his panic. “That’s not necessary, Percival, you don’t have to—”

“I know, but I want to.” Credence doesn’t know how, but the man crosses the space in only a few strides, and Credence has to physically stop himself from gasping when hot, calloused fingers brush against the soft skin of his back. “Can’t have you go on half-zipped, now can we?”

Credence holds his breath as the zipper is eased up to his collar, agonizingly slowly, and goosebumps shiver up his bare, pale legs. He’s never felt so bare, laid out so very open and vulnerable, even though most of him is covered. And he cannot look away, gaze meeting Percival’s, who looks at him over his shoulder, and Credence has to close his eyes, he has to—

He’s zippered up, now, he thinks rapidly, and Percival will step away any moment. That he’ll leave Credence cold and soft in the empty training rooms, that he’ll be gone, never to speak of this again.

But then those burning hot hands slide over his shoulders. And it’s not like the motherly touch of Seraphina trying to be supportive, or the angry pinch of Ma’s nails in his burning welts. It’s slower and more tender, a broad thumb sweeping up the side of his pale neck, where he can’t help but flush, caressing a line of fire through the fluffy curls of his nape. If he could’ve, he would’ve melted into a soft puddle of blushes and whimpers, but no, he has to stay solid, he has a skate in an hour.

And then there’s a whisper. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Credence.”

Credence thinks at first that he might’ve misheard the man. “What?” He whispers, and he makes to move and to face Percival, but he’s kept in place by those firm hands, and he can only look into the mirror and meet those darkly gleaming eyes.

“You. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Percival Graves repeats. “Do you understand?”

“No,” Credence says honestly. After that awful short program… No. But he’s allowed to turn around when he shakes his head, and he’s a bit startled to see that they’re nearly the same height, Percival so close their noses nearly bump. He doesn’t know why, but for some reason he’d thought Percival was a foot taller… his presence just eats up space, demands attention, even when he’s as unassuming as he is. It’s those heavy eyes, even now resting on the blush hollow of Credence’s throat, and he tries to take a step back, and his back hits the cool mirror, and for the first time since he’s landed in South Korea, he’s achingly hot, burning up from the inside out. Despite his bare legs prickling in the air and icy toes curling against the practice mat, he feels as though a fire’s been lit behind his heart, sending surges of warmth to flush his cheeks and make his mouth buzz and tingles spread through the tips of his fingers. He feels otherworldly.

Percival looks at him like he is.

“Are you going to kiss me?” Credence asks, and half-expects his breath to come out in a cloud.

“I don’t know,” Percival rumbles, and adds, “I want to.”

Credence startles at the hand cupping his cheek, surprisingly soft, no calluses or patchy scars. Not like his. Percival leans forward, so slowly, and Credence knows it’s so he can move away if he wants, avoid it, pretend there’s nothing between them, safe in denial. But Credence _wants_ and he doesn’t _care_ and so he stays still and lets Percival push his face into the crease of Credence’s neck. Chapped lips bump up against the line of his throat and hot breath brushes over his skin. Credence trembles as Percival trails kisses along his pulse, wet and smooth and warm and buzzing and strange.

“I slept in your coat last night,” Credence murmurs on a sudden burst of bravery, and he can feel Percival’s shudder against him, a full body thing that makes his heart swell with embarrassing, pleased pride. “It kept me warm.”

“I want you to medal.”

Credence blinks and looks up at Percival, incredulous. He makes a soft noise of protest as the man pulls away a little, breathing is so ragged and heavy that Credence can’t help but feel a little concerned for him. “I can’t.”

“Bullshit. I mean it.” Percival’s eyes are dark with some kind of knowledge that Credence doesn’t understand.

“With that short?” Credence laughs bitterly. “Why should I even try?”

“Because you can do it. You skated _good,_ Credence. That score… lots of skaters would kill to give the kind of performance you did.”

“I let America down,” and heck no, he’s not going to cry. He refuses even as he blinks furiously, eyes hot and welling. “I let _Sera_ down.”

“No you didn’t, Credence.” Percival is shaking his head, so close, it makes Credence’s heart ache. “The only person you let down is you. We’re all so fucking proud of you, Credence. Because you can do this.”

“I’d have to break my personal best,” Credence argues. “I’d have to break _records._ I’m—I’m not that good.”

“But you are. You _can_ do it. And once you have the medal around your neck, any medal, I’ll kiss you.” Percival’s thumb presses against the plush of Credence’s bottom lip, a hot shadow of a kiss that wells up in him, nearly sweeps his feet out from under him.

“Promise?” Credence asks, because he can’t argue with Percival, not when he’s looking at him like he dances up high with stars and moons. Credence can’t even find it in himself to feel embarrassed about how very needy he sounds. Because he’d do anything to get that mouth on his, those arms around him, holding him against a wall or a bed, he doesn't care which. He’s never wanted anyone, anything more than he wants Percival right now.

“I swear,” Percival murmurs.

“Then I’ll do it,” says Credence, and a small rush of courage makes his chin tilt up with determination. “I was… I was planning on giving it my all, anyways. This just makes me want it more.”

Percival tilts his head back and laughs and laughs, and Credence can feel it run through him like a beam of light. “I expected nothing less.” Percival’s eyes crinkle with delight and he leans in kisses Credence’s cheek, lingering as if a reward. It feels like a small eternity has passed by the time he pulls away, and Credence has never seen him smile so easily in his life. “I should go.”

Credence’s mouth trembles and he hides his face for a moment in Percival’s wide chest, feels Percival murmur sweetly, nuzzling at his soft curls. “Do you have to?” Credence mumbles, even though he knows he does.

Percival rumbles with laughter. “You know I do.” He cups Credence’s cheek. “You have to finish getting ready before the cameras find your hiding spot. And I have to get up to the booth to sound check.”

Credence makes a displeased sound, but the clutch of his fingers in Percival’s tie loosens enough for Percival to take a step back.

“I’ll see you after your skate,” and there’s a heavy promise in Percival’s voice.

“I better,” Credence says, and watches Percival go, the man refusing to turn his back. The door closes with a thud, but it doesn’t sound final. It sounds like the flip of a page, the slice of a blade against the ice.

Credence smiles.

…

“Representing the United States of America,” says a cool female voice over the PA, echoing throughout the ring, over the heads of the crowd, “Credence Barebone.” More voices echo, the same words in Korean and Japanese and Russian, overlapping, melding, and Credence slides out onto the ice and feels the world shiver on his shoulders.

It starts off quiet. Gentle presses of fingers on piano keys. Soft swooping motions of his legs, curling, fluttering, and then sliding into his jumping passes. The faces blur again, and he can only hear the soft rise and fall of the music. He feels the heavy weight of millions of eyes on his back, sliding over his legs and shoulders, catching on the edges of his wrists, rolling under his skates, but all he can think is that one of those pairs of eyes is Percival Graves. And he sinks into that thought and doesn’t come up for air.

It’s not like the short program. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t think he breathes between the end and the finish. And it’s everything he’s ever wanted.

Quad salchow, triple toe loop, seven revolutions in one and a half seconds. It’s enough to steal his breath cold, ice slicing beneath his blades, and he can barely feel himself once he lands, limbs going numb once he sinks into his spirals, and he can’t even feel himself but for the sting of icy air against his cheeks. It’s longer than two minutes. He goes through the jumps, and he feels as though he is flying, like the bird that Seraphina always told him he was every single practice. He’s soaring over houses and hills, a strange numbness taking over his limbs, and he’s never felt like this before. It’s an emptiness, but it’s a good emptiness, breaths filling up lungs, and that’s all there is. He doesn’t need to _think,_ he just feels, and that’s enough. Lazarus.

But time slips away from him, and before Credence knows it, he’s done another quad toe, the same jump he’d fell on in the short, unplanned for, unthought of, and if he could hear, he’d hear screams of shock, but he doesn’t have time to think about that because he’s quickly sinking into an Ina Bauer glide, and before he knows it, it’s at the end.

All he can do is slide into his layback spin, arms curved above his head, thighs aching, heart pounding, and he dreams.

He stops on a dime, slips into his ending poise on two knees, and two heartbeats later sound comes flooding back in and the roar of the crowd nearly makes him falter, but he holds position before he falls out of it, sobs bursting out of his chest as he rests his forehead on the ground, and his eyes blur from it till he can’t even see the waving hands and fluttering flags and the screaming faces of the crowd.

Credence manages to gather himself up enough to take his bows, picking up a single teddy bear, one of the many that shower onto the ice along with flowers and cards, and as the ice girls skate out in their little purple dresses and bright cheeks, he cradles the pup to his chest and sniffles.

Seraphina grabs him and drags him in for a bear hug once he gets to the edge of the ice, and he feels her soft hot lips pressing fervent delighted kisses over the numbness of his cheeks and brow.

“You did it! You fucking did it!”

And Credence laughs because he knows the cameras trained on them in this moment will have to cut out her colorful language, but right now all he can do is shove his cold nose into her shoulder and shake for just a second before he puts his skate guards on and hobbles to the Kiss and Cry. He numbly catches a plastic-wrapped single rose thrown by an eager fan from the bleachers, and he feels as though he’s still out there on the ice, still skating.

The Kiss and Cry isn’t any warmer than the rink, but Credence is able to shrug on the USA jacket and shiver a little before the reporters descend.

“How did it feel?” someone asks him, a mic shoved into Credence’s face.

“Really, really fast,” Credence manages to say before a different one finds his mouth.

“What were you thinking while it was happening?”

“That I wished it wasn’t so cold,” Credence says honestly, and that makes laughter erupt from the reporters, and he can see Seraphina rolling her eyes in his peripheral, but before he can say anything else, the reporters are being pulled out of the Kiss and Cry because it’s time for the scores.

_304.25_

Seraphina’s scream is terrifying.

Credence’s mind is flying. He’s broken his previous best. Even better than his silver Grand Prix. It’s a score that could challenge _Yuzuru Hanyu_. It’s a score that could get him on the stand. He grabs Sera’s hand and squeezes tightly because that’s all he can do, otherwise he’ll start crying again.

All that matters is that now he has a chance.

All he has to do now is wait.

…

 **Barebone’s Babe** _@trymehoney_ _  
_ Prayer circle time guys #pyeongchang

 **Credence Barebone Deserves Better** _@dontarguewithme_ _  
_ God he looks so good. THAT BUTT

 **Timess Hope** _@yuzuisanangel_   
Johnny: Credence Barebone’s costumes are always stunning he has such good taste… like me   
Also Johnny: has literal plastic birds in his bun

 **Honey Jones** _@redlightsgold_ _  
_ Percival Graves going insane over Credence Barebone’s quad combo is all of us

 **Mei Kim** _@JinBoyangCanDoIt_  
“I swear Credence is one of those skaters who is so beautiful he shows up in your dreams”  
PERCY I THINK THATS A YOU PROBLEM #droolmuch? #pyeongchang2018

 **Tigress Kwan** _@IAMDISGUSTED_ _  
_ I once had a casual fantasy about him one time where we had a meet-cute over coffee and I kissed him in the rain and married him under a starlit night - NBC Commentator Percival Graves about Credence Barebone probably

 **Timess Hope** _@yuzuisanangel_ _  
_ HE LANDED THE QUAD TOE HE ADDED A FIFTH QUAD I AM DYING I AM ASCENDING

 **Credence Barebone Deserves Better** _@dontarguewithme_   
!!!

 **Buzzfeed** _@Buzzfeed_ _  
_ 20 Ways That Credence Barebone is the Actually The Cutest Thing We’ve Ever Seen

 **actual trash <3 ** _@punmaster2000_   
I Love Him More Than Life Itself - a novel by me about olympic figure skater credence barebone

 **biggest fan** _@goYuzuBabe_ _  
_ _@punmaster2000_ co-written by 3x Gran Prix gold medalist Percival Graves

 **Lin-Manuel Miranda** _@Lin_Manuel_  
AND I WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR  
*perfect quad*  
LOVE  
AND I WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR  
*perfect quad*  
LOOOVE  
YES I WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR LOVE  
*sets up for quad, but then I just wag my finger at the judges and smile*  
BUT I WON'T DO THAT  
[flawless score, a hailstorm of stuffed bears]

 **NBC Olympics** _@NBCOlympics_ _  
_ USA figure skater Credence Barebone jumps in rankings to place third in men’s singles after Japan’s Yuzuru Hanyu and Spain’s Javier Fernandez _nbcne.ws/1og64We_

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by Nathan Chen's valiant struggle during these olympics. As I'm a rabid fan of competitive skating i had to gradence this somehow. hope you enjoy
> 
> A few examples of layback spins done by America’s sweetheart Adam Rippon; these are the spins that end Credence’s free program:  
> https://youtu.be/oj51lXvYBC0?t=4m39s  
> https://youtu.be/OIKeaYh9q-w?t=3m52s 
> 
> A few examples of the gorgeous Ina Bauers performed by the faelike Yuzuru Hanyu that Credence does for the drama:  
> https://youtu.be/LP6N31F9nzQ?t=4m7s  
> https://youtu.be/yZxDCfgVfTc?t=4m33s 
> 
> Some quad toe triple toe combos done by the aggressively spanish yet sweet like sugar Javier Fernandez of Spain:  
> https://youtu.be/Tg4-2w0nI78?t=37s  
> https://youtu.be/T0VHkUt-Xao?t=36s
> 
> Lin actually did tweet about the Pyeongchang Olympics but it was about actual USA champion Nathan Chen (who is amazing and precious and deserves all the world’s wonders) and not Credence Barebone ;)  
> https://twitter.com/Lin_Manuel/status/964689515611910144


End file.
